


Of (Half) Brothers and Mayhem

by sacredORDINARYdays



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family, Family Feels, Fluff, Fëanor loves Fingolfin but is too proud to admit it, Half-Brothers, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:47:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29055375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacredORDINARYdays/pseuds/sacredORDINARYdays
Summary: Three times Fingolfin thought of Fëanor, and one time his (half) brother thought of him as well. Fluff-angst is the best description I have.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've used (mostly) the Quenya names because at this time, Sindarin had not yet been adopted.
> 
> Nelyafinwe: Maedhros
> 
> Makalaure: Maglor
> 
> Tyelkormo: Celegorm
> 
> Carnistir: Caranthir
> 
> Curufinwe: Curufin
> 
> The Ambarussa: Amrod and Amras
> 
> Nolofinwe: Fingolfin
> 
> Feanaro: Feanor
> 
> Irime: Lalwen (the sister of Fingolfin and half-sister of Feanor)
> 
> Rochallor: Fingolfin's horse
> 
> Ringil: Fingolfin's sword
> 
> Doomsman/Namo: Mandos (the Vala in charge of the Halls of Mandos)

**Of (Half) Brothers and Mayhem**

~~~~~~~~~~~~The Grinding Ice~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the years, Ñolofinwë had gotten quite good at guessing the true meanings behind Feanaro's words.

"Sure" meant _of course, I would love to, do tell me more,_

"Mhmm" meant _I don't believe you one bit, but I'll let it go, because father said I must practice magnanimity,_

"How pleasant" meant _This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard why am I talking to you,_

and long ago, when Ñolofinwë was still young, he had thought that "I hate you" meant _I love you but perhaps I don't want to show it._

He was older now, and wiser, and abandoned to the Ice, and knew that the 'hidden meaning' was but a distant daydream.

Ñolofinwë marched on.

He loved his older brother, how could he not? How could he forget the one who taught him the alphabet (if only because said person would not stand for having an unintelligent sibling), who forced a bowl of herbal medicine down his throat when he had gotten a terrible cough, scowling face offset by the worry in his eyes, who had assured him that he was completely pathetic but Anairë had put up with him thus far, so it was highly unlikely she would refuse his proposal? He could not forget his older brother- _Half-brother_ , a familiar snarky voice corrected him in his head-nor could he bring himself to loathe him. Elenwë had fallen. Their soldiers had fallen. Children had fallen. Yet no hate towards him stirred in Ñolofinwë's heart. Hurt, he had in the multitudes, righteous anger, he had a great deal of, but hate? He could not feel it no matter how hard he tried. Ñolofinwë marched on.

Ñolofinwë closed his eyes, the biting cold of the Helcaraxë seeping into his bones, crystalline shards of ice cutting through the bare skin of his face. He knew, _he knew_ that they had to go forward-that the only way now was to keep moving-but why, oh why did a part of him dread going to Middle Earth? Why did a part of him dread seeing his brother again?( _half-brother_ the voice corrected again) (Nolofinwe didn't really care-he would call Fëanáro whatever he darn well pleased, he owed him at least that). Still, Ñolofinwë marched on.

He knew what he would have to do when they finally met the Fëanorians. He could see it already, the anger, a voice that Ñolofinwë did not want to believe was his yelling at Fëanáro, stating his rage, his betrayal, his _hate_...Ñolofinwë stopped his mind there. He had no desire to think about what was to come. He would be expected to break ties with all of them. Nelyafinwë(he winced at this name-forever a reminder of his position in his brother's heart), Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Curufinwë, the Ambarussa. All those who had left them for dead. He would be expected to break ties with his-with Fëanaro. Ñolofinwë shared a glance with Irimë. She seemed to understand his conflict, though she gave no comfort. In a distant world, perhaps they could have lived in peace with their eldest brother. It was not this world. All they would have left were the long-ago memories of warm arms reading to them in bed, gently placing a hesitant kiss on their foreheads when he had thought they were asleep, of a fire that had not yet burned too hot and bright for anyone to come close to. It was enough...it would have to be enough.

Ñolofinwë marched on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~After Reaching Middle Earth~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ñolofinwë steeled his face, ready to speak what he was supposed to-ready to yell, accuse, to find justice for his people. He was not ready to hear what the Fëanorians had to say. He was dead. It was something Ñolofinwë could not comprehend. Death was not something new, not after the Ice, but him?

Ñolofinwë had never thought that he would ever die. True rage came to him now.

How _dare_ he die before facing the anger of Ñolofinwë's people?

How _dare_ he die before facing the scathing words of his sons?

How _dare_ he die before facing justice? How _dare_ he die and-and leave Ñolofinwë so irrevocably alone?

They were supposed to be a family and he had the _audacity_ to get killed before Ñolofinwë could punch him, and scream, and pull him into a hug because he didn't care anymore, and he missed his brother, and all he wanted was to be trusted.

He said none of this though, only turned away, and in the end said nothing. He was the only leader his people had now. He had to be strong. It was only in his private tent, warmed by the burning fire in the hearth, when Ñolofinwë allowed a single, solitary tear to streak down from his red eyes to his pale chin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Meeting Morgoth: The Death Of Fingolfin~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fingolfin (not Ñolofinwë-he had died the moment he had became king, when two people had died and another was hung on the Thangorodrim and hundreds more had perished in unending cold) slid off Rochallor, gripping Ringil with a strength he did not know he had. He sent Rochallor away-there was no need for him to die today-and faced the gates of Angband. Fingolfin took a deep breath, and marched on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Bonus: Fëanaro's POV: Fingolfin's Death~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The idiot. The halfwit. The _ignoramus_. Well, perhaps not the last one. Ñolofinwë may not have been as brilliant as Fëanaro, but he was not dull enough to believe that facing Morgoth in single combat would result in anything else other than his death.

That simply made him even more foolish, crazy, witless!

The _gall!_

He dared to go and get himself killed!

Fëanáro raged in silent fury, eyes ablaze with roaring fire. Suddenly, he sensed an unmistakable presence behind him.

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested," He spoke to the Lord of the Halls.

Námo inclined his head in a short greeting. "I do not pretend to understand your hate, son of Finwë, but I think my offer is one you will not be so hasty to decline."

Fëanáro raised his eyebrows. It was uncharacteristic of the Valar to lie. His interest was piqued (though he would never admit it).

"And what do you have, Doomsayer, that I would not refuse?"

"A chance."

This caused both of Fëanáro's eyebrows to reach his hairline.

"Perhaps I should have specified," Námo answered in response to Fëanaro's unsaid skepticism, "As you know, Fingolfin has died-"

Fëanáro glared at him with so much animosity that Námo paused for a second before continuing, "and soon he will come to these Halls. There are very few here who could comfort him, in the way all fëa need to be comforted after death. Finwë, yes, but after that, you would be his closest kin. What do you say son of Míriel? Will you aid the son of Indis?"

Fëanáro was silent. This is unexpected. He had thought after...everything, he would never be able to speak to his bro- _half-brother_ again. There was no reason to help, of course. They had always been rivals. Ñolofinwë sought to usurp him, he had left Ñolofinwë to the Helcaraxë.

Yet...some part of his soul remembered the days in the height of bliss in Aman, when a small half-noldo, half-vanyar elf boy would toddle after his elder brother, and no matter what the elder did, it would not dissuade the younger brother. He remembered long days in the forge when the older brother would lay a blanket on his younger sibling after he had fallen asleep while the elder was working. He remembered a bright smile, and the joy that radiated from the younger when the older had finally given him a begetting day present, and how the younger had never taken the slender bracelet off. Fëanáro shook himself from his reverie, and faced the waiting Valar.

"I hate him." _I love him, though I do not dare show it._

"He is not my brother." _He is my family._

"I care for him not." _I wish he had not died._

All these things he said, and in return Námo responded only by saying "I know." Fëanáro nodded, then said "Come, then, and lead me to Ñolofinwë. I cannot have him snivelling, afterall." Námo only smiled, and led the son of Finwë to the son of Finwë. 


	2. Bonus: (dead) Fëanor meets (dead) Nolofinwë, and is NOT pleased

“You freaking _idiot!_ If I had known you were so _stupid_ I would’ve forced Arafinwë to take you back with him!” 

A stream of curses and a snappish voice was the first thing Nolofinwë vaguely noticed after realizing he was in the Halls of Mandos. Still disoriented, he struggled to figure out _who in Arda_ had the gall to talk to him that way. Before he could figure it out, a strong hand proceeded to pull him away (funny, he hadn’t thought that dead spirits could touch each other). With a startled yelp, Nolofinwë turned around to call for help, when he caught sight of Námo himself, with an expression on his face which on anyone else might have been called _amusement_ . With a jolt, Nolofinwë realized the person--spirit? fëa? ‘ _thing_ ’ sounded a bit rude--had stopped in a room. 

Whirling around, Nolofinwë’s (spiritual) eyes widened. Standing in front of him, as blazing and angry as he had been in life, was Fëanáro. Nolofinwë didn’t think that people got _angry_ in the Halls, but then again, his (half) brother was never known for keeping his temper in check. 

“Fëanáro?” Years and years of speaking Sindarin seemed to have deserted Nolofinwë upon seeing the creator of Tengwar. He did not quite know what to feel. Resentment? Righteous fury? Confusion? He had no time to decide because he _saw_ something in his brother’s eyes, _pain_ (though it would not strike him until later that perhaps Fëanáro had been feeling pain because of _him,_ and his death) _,_ and his heart, frozen by the merciless Helcaraxë, melted some. 

The aforementioned brother huffed moodily. Apparently he was not pleased about something, judging by the familiar glower on his face. 

“You are so _incredibly stupid_ , Nolofinwe, and when we get out of here, I’m going to kill you again myself.” 

Well, he was clearly feeling chipper as always. Though, this time, Nolofinwë truly did not know what had gotten him so worked up. They had only met five minutes ago, for pity’s sake.

“I cannot _believe,_ brother mine, that you had the _insolence_ to go _and get yourself killed!”_

Ah. There was the infamous Fëanorian temper. 

But… “Get myself killed?”

Fëanáro stared at him blankly. 

“Surely--” he cleared his throat here, and there was a strange look on his face.

“Surely you did not think that you could challenge Morgoth in _single combat_ and win?”

Oh. Right. He had done that. Nolofinwë supposed that he should try to remember how he died. 

“Ah.” was all he could think to say. Centuries of diplomatic eloquence seemed to have deserted him, and he was once again a child struck speechless in front of his older brother.

This, clearly, was not a satisfactory answer to Fëanáro.

“Ah? _Ah?! You get killed--in a manner which is really your fault--and all you have to say is AH?!”_

Oh yeah, definitely _not_ pleased. 

“Why do you care? Did you not leave me-- _us_ for the Grinding Ice to die?” Nolofinwë asked, wanting only confirmation for something he had been contemplating ever since the burning of the ships.

This seemed to get Fëanáro to stop talking. 

Only years and years of practice managed to allow Nolofinwë to refrain from wincing as his brother raged. 

“ _DIE?!_ By the Valar Nolofinwe! I distrusted you, and thought you sought to usurp me, yes! I wanted only those I considered loyal to me! But want you _DEAD?!_ I have only wanted one being dead before, and that is the one who killed my-!”

Fëanáro paused here, temper seemingly gone. 

" _our_ father."

Oh.

_Oh._

Nolofinwë only stared at him, shocked. That was quite possibly, the most meaningful thing anyone had ever said to him.

Fëanáro brushed his wispy robes in a show of rare uncertainty. 

“Many things I am, brother (it did not escape Nolofinwë’s attention that there was a lack of the typically scathing _half-brother,_ and his heart melted a little more), Kinslayer, the father who doomed his children, master smith (he never could resist a little self-indulgence), but I am not the kind of person who would _wish_ death upon his kin, especially those in his...family. I wanted you to go back, Nolofinwë. To go..home.” 

There it was. Subtle, but present. An apology. Well, as close to an apology as he was ever going to get.

Finally, after centuries of fighting, and holding what was left of the Noldor together, Nolofinwë could release the years of pent up frustration. Tears leaked from his eyes, and Fëanáro, now terrified, whipped his head around as if looking for someone who could help him with _whatever the heck_ was happening. 

Nolofinwë gave him no time to recover his senses, and pulled his brother into a hug. 

He felt Fëanáro tense under his arms, then felt uncertain hands clutch him back. 

“Oh do stop crying brother” _It will be alright_

“Are you ever going to let go of me? No? Ah well, I suppose I can persuade myself to endure you for a bit longer” _I’m not going to leave_

Oh how Nolofinwë had missed his brother’s scathing words and the intentions behind them. He could rest now. He was no longer the oldest, and after all that Fëanaro had done to him, he thought that his brother deserved to take over any duties of his for some time. Relaxing in his brother’s arms, he felt exhaustion seeping into his bones, and saw his eyes slowly closing…

“Hey! Nolofinwë I am _not your bed!_ What are you doing!”

Nolofinwë felt the healing darkness take him, but before he lost all consciousness, a resigned sigh was heard, then a soft, deep voice telling him “Sleep, goodness knows you need it. You look awful.”

A small smile gracing his features, Nolofinwë fell asleep. 

Fëanáro stared at his brother, then laid him on the nearest piece of furniture--a chaise lounge--and sat on a nearby chair. 

Námo stared at him, inquiring. 

“No, I’ll watch over him, it’s fine”   
  


The Doomsayer gave an acquiescing nod, then left the room, a small smirk gracing his sharp features. 

Yes, all would be alright in the House of Finwë. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then all their children die (except for Maglor, possibly), and there's a big family reunion in Mandos! 
> 
> Also, the Fëanorians semi-adopt Maeglin, and when he asks the Nolofinwëans and Arafinwëans how on earth they still accept him as family, they only brush it off saying "bro, if we disowned everyone who killed other elves, there'd be, like, four people left in the entire House of Finwë"


End file.
